


The Third Hunk

by TheLionInMyBed



Category: Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Gen, Humor, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Channing Tatum and Vin Diesel find out that their local gym (just down the road from Channing's garage/dance studio) is up for sale, they decide after much discussion and a few too many beers, that it only makes sense for them to buy it together. And then decide again, once they’ve sobered up, that it still makes sense. But they need a third person to go in on it with them, and so far they’ve had no luck finding a suitable Hollywood star who shares their love of vigorous, sweaty workouts. </p><p>Will they ever find...the third hunk? (yes, it is Chris Hemsworth)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Hunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackWave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackWave/gifts).



> Written for Blackwave's birthday. They wanted Channing Tatum and Vin Diesel being friends and buying a gym with Chris Hemsworth. They got exactly that, I take no responsibility.

Inside the garage the heat was near tropical so Channing Tatum welded shirtless despite the danger of sparks. He improvised little dances as he worked to pass the time, moving with the easy grace of a natural predator. Anyone watching who did not know him as well as Vin Diesel might have been intimidated. But Vin did know him and the only reason he hesitated to announce his presence was that he didn’t want to break Channing’s flow. 

“Hey,” he called at last, his deep voice reverberating in the small space. “How you getting on?”

Channing put down his welding torch and wiped the jewels of sweat from his brow. There was a smudge of engine oil on his cheek, but that minor imperfection only highlighted his chiseled bone structure. He was repairing Vin’s 1967 Chevrolet Camaro, damaged after Vin had seen a school bus broken down on a level crossing while driving to a shoot, and been forced to ram it to safety. He’d been extra late because every child on that bus had wanted an autograph and Vin Diesel wasn’t the kind of man who saved lives only to break hearts. He had tried to pay his friend for the repair work time and time again, but Channing had brushed him off with that puppy-dog smile of his. “What are friends for?” he’d said. 

He was smiling that smile right then. “I’m just about done,” he said. “You want to take her out for a spin?”

“Sure thing,” Vin said, clasping hands with him, the corded muscles in his arms rippling. “Go shower and I’ll take you out for a milkshake. My way of showing my appreciation.”

“Sounds good,” said Channing. “Let’s roll.”

“Are you kidding? You’re not getting in my baby like that,” Vin said, giving him a playful shove in the direction of the house. 

***

Half an hour later they were both sliding into a booth at their favourite diner. The warm glow of the overhead lights reflected in the chrome trim, the worn red leather seats and the framed vintage adverts on the walls all painted a picture of an America that wasn’t, an America that had never been but that they’d spent their lives depicting. In this diner Vin sometimes felt that if everyone would just dream hard enough, they could make it real. That kept him coming back here. Well that and the smoothies were pretty damn good.

Vin ordered a strawberry and acacia one with a wink at the starstruck waitress, then pretended he wasn’t jealous when Channing’s banana soy milkshake arrived, smothered in coconut caramel “That’s going straight to your hips,” Vin said, shaking his head. 

Channing just smiled and spooned up the gooey ribbons of caramel. 

Most times they came here they’d pass an hour laughing and joking, shooting the shit. But today they had more serious concerns. Their favourite gym, the one just down the street from Channing’s dance studio/garage had come up for sale and they had decided, after much discussion and a few too many beers, that it only made sense for them to buy it together. And then decided again, once they’d sobered up, that it still made sense. But they needed a third person to go in on it with them, and so far they’d had no luck finding a suitable Hollywood hunk who shared their love of vigorous, sweaty workouts. 

“I hear Benedict Cummerbunch is in the country, looking to get buff for his next project,” Vin said, trying for casual. 

“I hate the way he looks at me,” Channing said with a shudder. “All sly and opportunistic.”

Vin nodded. There was something slimy, almost lizard-like about the man, but he’d felt he had to suggest it. “Michael Fassbender?”

“Grins like a shark. I’m not having a man with a smile like that spotting for me.”

They’d already exhausted all the more obvious actors and, from the slurping sounds he was making, Channing had just about exhausted his milkshake, and they were still no closer to a solution. 

Suddenly a blur of golden hair and taut muscle flew past the diner window. 

 

“What was that?” Vin asked

“It looked like...Chris Hemsworth,” Channing said hunkily. 

“Yeah,” Vin said slowly. “I think you’re right. And he looked like he was in a hurry.”

They exchanged a meaningful look, set aside the dregs of their drinks and hurried after him. 

***

Chris Hemsworth was not, it turned out, very difficult to follow. Even though they’d lost sight of him, almost two meters of blond adonis tended to draw looks, and there were plenty of passersby more than happy to point them in the right direction. 

And then they saw the smoke and it was even easier. 

“That’s…” Channing gasped.

“The kitten orphanage,” Vin finished when the dancer couldn’t get the words out, so deep was his horror.

The building was surrounded with horrified bystanders and firemen straining to direct their hoses in through the burnt out windows. They stood aside respectfully as Channing and Vin approached, knowing better than to stand in the way of their heroism. 

“We’re doing our best with the hoses,” a firewoman told them. “But I don’t know if we’ll get it out in time. There are so many kittens still trapped inside…”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Channing tore his shirt off and ripped it into strips. His bare torso gleamed in the firelight as he handed a rag to Vin and then knotted another around his face to shield himself from the smoke. 

“I’m going in,” he said, striding forwards. But suddenly Chris Hemsworth burst from the building, his perfect arms laden with mewling kittens. The firehose had turned his white t-shirt translucent, and it clung to his sculpted torso like it was painted on. His chin bristled with golden stubble like a wheatfield after the harvest and his eyes shon with the steely determination of a man who does not know how to lose. He deposited the kittens safely on the ground, nodded to Vin and Channing, and then charged back into the inferno. There was no need for words. They followed him into the blaze. 

Inside, the smoke obscured their vision but to win his Oscar for portraying Riddick in such hit films as Pitch Black and The Chronicles Of Riddick, Vin Diesel had long ago learnt how to see in total darkness. “That way!” he called, his deep, husky voice cutting through the roar of the fire and the screams of the crowd outside. 

Their way was blocked by debris, but any one of them had the strength of two regular men, and they hardly even slowed, tossing aside lumps of rubble like so much polystyrene set dressing. A heavy steel beam gave them a moment’s pause, heavier than any one of them could lift individually. But then they were moving together, muscles straining with a synchrony that felt entirely natural, and the beam was forced out of their way. 

And there were the last of the kittens, tiny bundles of fur with wide, heart-stopping eyes. They gathered them all up and turned for the exit. Chris lead the way, his nimble feet picking a clear path across the unstable floor. 

“Channing, look out!” Chris called, as the floor beneath him collapsed. No ordinary man could have moved fast enough to escape, but Channing Tatum was no ordinary man. His muscles and reflexes had been honed by years of dancing and martial arts, and he backflipped to safety, deftly twisting as he landed to avoid a falling spar. 

He teetered on the edge of the pit, unable to use his arms for balance for fear of dropping his precious cargo and then Chris was there, pulling him to safety with his huge, strong arms. 

“Thanks, man,” said Channing. “I’d shake your hand but…” He gestured helplessly to the kittens and they all laughed. 

The laughter swiftly turned to coughing. “Let us get out of this burning building and then we can worry about thank yous,” Chris said, with a smile in his stormy blue eyes. 

They made their way outside without further incident and waved aside the paramedics that came out to meet them. They were all smeared with dirt and grime, and each had received a small cut above his eye that leaked a thin trickle of blood, but it only served to make them look more rugged and capable. 

They gave the kittens to a waiting veterinarian and clasped hands. 

“Those were some impressive moves, my friend,” Chris boomed, his voice clearly undamaged by the smoke. “One day you must teach me.”

And there went Channing, always ready to help, always ready to explain the nuances of a pelvic thrust. Vin let them talk, nodding slowly and appreciatively. Their quest was at an end, their gym safe. 

They had found the third hunk.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr in the [obvious place](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com)!


End file.
